


Rags cannot hide a gentle grace

by cartographicalspine



Series: The Meek [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Journey to Skyhold, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographicalspine/pseuds/cartographicalspine
Summary: Vivienne begins to fashion a figurehead for the Inquisition. The Herald promises to be trouble.An "Arriving at Skyhold" story.





	Rags cannot hide a gentle grace

They make a pair, the two cousins, as they lead the Inquisition’s migration through the mountains. Little has been said about their destination, but the Lady Trevelyan knows how to make use of the faithful’s need for guidance after such devastation upon their poor Haven. If Mother Giselle recognizes the moments of their cause, Trevelyan knows of capitalizing on them. She sings choice verses from the Chant, a chorus of two voices, two tones, and the Herald remains a beacon at her side, the other half of her siren call through night and day.

_I am not alone. Even_

_as I stumble on the path_

_with my eyes closed, yet I see_

_The Light is here._

The mark flares as though in response, and Vivienne smiles at the murmur that ripples through the crowd. Played like a violin, as the masses usually are. She has to commend Trevelyan for her judicious use of the Herald; symbols are as compelling as the moment chosen for them.

If the Herald is a beacon, then Skyhold is the foundation they will build it upon. Ruins though it may be, the keep shows potential. Vivienne might have preferred a more civilized locale but she is no fool for creature comforts. They need the isolation and protection.

It has its appeal, a grand sort of presence that sates her discriminating taste.

For the crowning touches...Trevelyan bears herself well and has now withdrawn with the advisory council to discuss the Inquisition’s next move. Vivienne’s concern is the Herald; they need a figurehead that inspires and encourages as Trevelyan does, though the true command will always lie in her (as Vivienne has her suspicions on the council’s subject of discussion). She needs a symbol she can wield exquisitely.

It falls, then, to Vivienne to give the Inquisition a figurehead that inspires and encourages as Trevelyan does, a symbol to wield exquisitely. “My dear, you didn’t expect to keep those shabby robes, did you?”

“I _like_ these shabby robes. They’re lucky!”

From behind an inadequately small divider, Bull drawls, “Yeah, no. You blew your chest wide open in one of those. We’d all just joined, too, and suddenly they’re telling us _whoops, there might not be a Herald anymore? Thank you for your interest anyway?_ Lucky you survived, maybe.”

That does not help matters. “Exactly! How am I supposed to trust my life to any other clothes? No, wait! _You have no right!”_

There is absolutely nothing she’d trust to these. They are complete shreds at the hem, and she knows he’s stashed the lyrium-burned one somewhere in here. “These old robes couldn’t be worth less if they were ashes. We’ll have you fitted for new—”

He snatches the pack from her and glowers. _”Mine.”_

The others are staring openly now. Maker’s mercy, is there no civility to be found? “If you will not dress yourself as befits the role, then you’ll have the privilege taken from you. I’ll not tolerate a petulant child as the Inquisition’s _figurehead.”_

His cheeks have darkened with an angry flush, and his eyes burn the hot, wicked blue of an unchecked temper. Vivienne recognizes immediately where this is headed, profanities and simplicities because he cannot imagine anything more important than his feelings. Any moment now he’ll storm off like a tempest, true to nature, to hide somewhere suitably dingy and miserable until they need to confirm he’s still alive. Could she expect better of him? From a figurehead who refuses the part?

...but he stops himself, caught between leaving and staying. He’s working something over in his mind, and then he turns a surprisingly repentant gaze at her.

“You’re...right.” She did not expect this. Neither did the others, from the looks on their faces. But the wonder is only just beginning. “I...I was wrong, and I know that. You wanted what was best for the Inquisition, and I didn’t want to care about that. But it’s important to you, to everyone, to what we’re doing, and I think that’s great. You’re really great, Vivienne, and you always look so incredible and I think that I could never stop looking up to you until the day I die. I want to be so much like you...and I think I just got caught up in what I wanted instead. I’m sorry.”

He takes a deep breath and something in his eyes changes. “But you were wrong, too. You threatened to burn my things, and that really hurt. I’ve never had many things before. Maybe it’s stupid to you, maybe you’d just get me new things later, but this is my property. Yes, my old Tranquil robes are pretty useless now, but they’re as important to me as fancy new clothes are to you. I’m a person, and you don’t take things from a person without their permission. You need to respect me as a person, too, even when it doesn’t seem important to you. It...really matters to me.”

Vivienne is entirely impressed and shamed at once; she really did treat him atrociously in front of everyone, didn’t she? Like an object. _A figurehead,_ she called him. She’d gone too far. “I have been abominable, my dear. Forgive me.”

He forgives and forgets like a child, for all his capacity to respond maturely, and his smile holds absolutely no resentment towards her at all. “I’d still like to keep them. Please.”

She wouldn’t allow her second-worst enemy these rags, but she reminds herself that autonomy is what gave her the chance to flourish in the gilded cages that followed. “...they are not to leave your quarters, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With that crisis averted, they can finally return to the important matters at hand, like whipping everyone up into a presentable front for the masses when they arrive. Even Sera is forced to the basins, griping about the cold and damp and other nonsense. From behind the makeshift dividers, she can hear snippets of conversation amidst the rustling and the splashing. “You know, Varric...it was once believed that abundant chest hair negated the restorative effects of bathing.”

“...I’m not giving you my basin of sad, lukewarm water, Chuckles.”

But then the Herald has slipped out of his robes to wash up, and Vivienne despairs not only at the scars that litter his skin but at the bandages still spotted bright red beneath his undershirt and breeches. Their immaculate _Herald_. “My dear, you do remember the Inquisition’s healers?”

He quirks a brow at her like it’s taking him a moment to connect her words’ intent. “Oh, I’m banned from those. Life-or-death situations only.”

“As I recall, you harassed them for a month straight about ‘my emotions, my emotions’ before they pulled that ban.” Solas joins them, adjusting the shoulders of a fresh set of robes as he looks the Herald up and down. He gives Vivienne a pointed frown. “Do they trouble you?”

The Herald stretches and rolls his shoulders as though feeling out his body after a hard fall. “I don’t know. They’re nice enough when they let me in the door.”

Solas, of course, meant the wounds and not the healers, but he seems to have tired of their conversation now that his belongings are safe, and he joins Sera in splashing as much of the water in the basins over everyone within range. They’re soaked by the end, grinning at the furious, shivering group huddled by the fire (Dorian in particular looks like the sorriest half-drowned creature she’s ever seen).

The pair could not look more bedraggled unless they tried rolling in the mud, which she personally wouldn’t put past them, but Sera drapes herself shuddering over his shoulders, griping of the unforgiving cold again and promising pies for next time instead. The dirt and grime from the journey has been washed off, but they’re all far from looking presentable to the public. The Herald specifically has made her task very clear, even beyond scars, which can be hidden, and clothes, which can be changed. His hair has grown out; will the brand look better beneath a fringe, less frightening? Vivienne worries her hands in the fabric of a new, sleek set of robes and thinks of tucking, adjusting, smoothing imperfections so that the beacon that guided the people will be as resplendent in the light of day as it was in the darkness.

She catches him watching her, and he raises his brows at the sight of the robes in her lap. His pack lies beside her in the dirt, to remain out of sight. A figurehead exists to be seen and not heard.

 _A person._ She’ll try her best to remember.


End file.
